


Cats In the Cradle

by bansidhe



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-03
Updated: 2010-08-03
Packaged: 2017-10-10 22:11:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/104881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bansidhe/pseuds/bansidhe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Worst father ever</i>, John groans inwardly, and sets the beer and ruined notes aside to scoop him up and try to quiet Sammy down.</p><p>---</p><p>John Winchester's tracking something that likes to hurt kids, and can't leave his alone for a second. Rated mature for language, sexual predators, and violence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cats In the Cradle

**Author's Note:**

> I started out trying to write Fluff, and got Dark Things instead.   
> Thank you SO MUCH to my beta readers, Parcae and [Keysmash](http://archiveofourown.org/users/keysmash). ♥

The place has the feel of a bar badly disguised as a family-friendly pizza joint: The dough's got the tang of beer, but the sauce is decent, so John ordered a large with pepperoni. Sammy's not having much of it, peeling off the pepperoni and then just eating the cheese -- and with the face he'd pulled when he tasted the crust, John's not in the mood to fight his youngest. (At least the sauce makes it kind of like the kid's eating a vegetable, if you squint.)

John's still in the research stage of this particular job, unsure whether the attacks are a Lamia, or something else, the fact that it's going after kids and just disappearing them before the body drops in the desert, dehydrated and full of holes -- It's really making him antsy: Antsy enough that he's dragging the boys along with him wherever he goes 'til he knows what it is and how to kill it... But it's also slowing him down a lot.

This is day three, which is why John's parked in the closest thing he can get to a bar, both boys in sight, working his way through his notes and a pitcher of the piss-water they had on tap.

"Da," Sammy says, pinching a torn-up piece of crust very carefully between his forefinger and thumb, holding it up and watching John. "Da da. Dee!"

"Yes, Sammy. we're right here," John says absently, circling a blurb from a photocopied article and adding to his notes.

"_No._" The crust gets dropped on the floor.

John sighs, wondering whether he's glad or not that Sammy's smart enough to already have that particular concept down before his first birthday (never mind that it took Dean 'til he was two), and decides to ignore both the chatter and the dropped pizza pieces for now.

Dean puts down the piece of pizza that he's been studiously chewing his way through -- kid probably doesn't like the beer-crust either, but John gives Dean points for eating it like a trooper -- and slides under the table, picking up the mess that John doesn't want to deal with just yet: John reaches under the table and gives his eldest's hair a ruffle, idly noting that both boys are due a haircut. "Good job, Dean-o."

"Dee!" Sammy squeals happily and kicks excitedly in the high-chair -- and promptly drops a wad of cheese on his big brother's shirt.

"Aw, shi-_shoot_, Sammy," John says, and leaves off on his notes, grabbing a double handful of napkins and Dean, pulling the skin-n-bones five year old into his lap and mopping the mess off, best he can.

"Da-ad," Dean grumbles, squirming like he wants to hop down, but still managing to stay put. "It's fine."

John privately thinks that his kids already look like little hoodlums and he doesn't need to let them run around with food stains on top of it, but just keeps quiet as he mops Dean clean with a combination of paper napkins and the lukewarm tap water he got along with the beer. He knows why the kids are being such a pain: They're not being allowed to do anything, he's frustrated, and they're all living in each other's pockets. Dean's got to be bored out of his skull, and John's been watching his boy notice the windowless closet made up into a glorified game room about twenty paces from where they're all sitting.

What the hell. No windows, so it's not like anything could drag Dean out of there without getting past him -- so John digs deep in his jean's front pocket, comes up with a handful of about seven quarters and rolls them about in his palm.

"Dean. See that arcade over there?"

Dean's suddenly looking very interested, eyes glued to the hand clinking with change. "Yessir?"

"How long you think you can make these last?"

His eldest's suddenly got a case of ants in his britches, squirming off John's lap and landing right there at his father's side, doing a fair imitation of standing at attention. "I'll find out?"

"Sounds like a plan," John says, taking one small hand and dropping the coins into it: Dean spares his baby brother a quick glance, but then hightails it after the bleeps and electronic blasts of the video games.

John chuckles and steals a sip of the slowly-warming beer -- just in time for Sammy to develop a throwing arm, crust fragment landing saucy-side down on John's notes.

"_Dee_, no!" Sammy shouts.

"Damnit, Sammy, _no_," John grumbles, a little more growly than he'd intended: Sam's eyes widen, and he promptly bursts into tears.

_Worst father ever_, John groans inwardly, and sets the beer and ruined notes aside to scoop him up and try to quiet Sammy down.

 

* * *

 

When Dean hits the arcade, first thing he does is check out his options: Two pinball machines that he ignores entirely and a few video consoles, boasting titles like _Galaxy Game_, _Karate Champ_ and _Pac-Man_.

Dean gravitates toward _Karate Champ_ and uses the first quarter: He picks the guy in the red gi and loses it just as fast, the beaten-up arcade game not reading properly half the time when he moves the joystick.

"Son of a _bitch_," Dean cusses under his breath, the words giving him a small thrill even if he doesn't quite know what they mean: Face scrunched up in a scowl, he kicks at the game half-heartedly before looking at the other options. He wants to make his six quarters last longer than six minutes, so Dean pulls the booster step over to _Pac-Man_ and gives outsmarting the ghosts a try.

He gets three-quarters of the way through the first level before the team of ghost monsters get him, and Dean eagerly feeds the machine some more coins -- He'll clear the level and still has two power pellets to go, now that he knows that Pinky and Blinky are the real ones to look out for, and it's really kind of _fun_, hunting ghosts and dodging down the maze of alleyways and double-backs.

There are still two more quarters sitting in his front pocket when Inky changes tactics and gets him, veering up instead of down, and Dean lets the timer run out: He toggles the joystick through 'D W' on the screen, secretly pleased that he kicks someone from 8th place to 9th.

"Damn," says a voice behind Dean. "You just knocked out my high score."

Dean turns to look, sees a brown-haired guy about Dad's age and half Dad's width standing there, smirking.

"Sorry," Dean says, stepping down from the bench-step, uncomfortable and uncertain why.

"No big deal," the guy says, holding a bag of quarters and jingling them. "Hey -- Want to go two-player?"

There's only two quarters in his pocket. Dean bites his lower lip, thinking, because he really wants to keep playing, and Dad _did_ tell him to see how long he could make his quarters last.

"I guess," Dean says, and blinks a little when the guy drops two quarters into the machine.

"You can get the next game, okay? But my idea, my treat."

"Okay," Dean says, and the guy slaps him on the shoulder, friendly-like, just like Dean's seen Dad do with Mr. Deacon and Pastor Jim.

"Awesome," the guy says, and presses the start button. "Let's go."

Dean gets another half hour of play, the guy never making Dean reach into his pocket to use his two quarters, and he has to say it's easier and harder to play _Pac-Man_ with someone else: Easier because four on two with the ghosts make much better odds, but harder because he can't tell what the guy is thinking. There's no strategy, the other player going immediately after the power pellets and chomping his way through the ghost monsters, leaving Dean to try and snap up all the normal dots to clear the level while avoiding the restored ghosts. He leans around as he plays, as if he could force his Pac-Man around even faster from the way he bobs and weaves, him and the guy playing up in each other's space.

Dean's just died for the last time when the guy's lean shifts.

"Hey," the guy says, arms suddenly on either side of Dean against the console, bracketing him in. "Hey. Do you want some more quarters?"

"Not really," Dean says, uncomfortable again and a little mad at how unsure and water-thin his voice comes out, nothing like Dad's. "I -- I should go."

"No rush, kid, no rush -- C'mon, let's play a different game."

Dean's got a gasp stuck in his throat, because the guy's standing too close and leaning on him, rubbing up against Dean's back with something funny and hot in his pants pocket. Dean's stomach tangles tightly up into knots, and Dean doesn't even know why -- but then the stranger's hand is swiping over his lower lip, thumb dipping past his lips and Dean shies his head away, but the guy's got this grip like iron on his shoulder and he's leading him out of the arcade, sing-songing something about how if Dean's really good, he'll give him the whole fucking bag of quarters. Dean searches for Dad, a sudden look back shot at their table, but there's only Sammy trying to get out of the high chair and no sign of Dad and Dean can feel himself breathing too fast, like there isn't enough air in the room and --

There's a click of metal, and Dean looks up, sees Dad standing close behind the creepy guy, smiling this smile that isn't friendly in the least and makes his eyes look flat and cold. Dad keeps his eyes locked on the guy, and for a moment, Dean feels so much smaller and younger than five.

Dad's voice cuts through the fear. "All right, Dean?"

"Yessir."

"Fine," Dad says, and it sounds like it's anything but, even though now that Dad's here, that knot's unwinding in Dean's belly. "We'll have some lessons on where to hit someone touching where you don't like later. Why don't you go keep an eye on Sammy a few minutes?"

Dad's voice isn't a question, even if the words sound like it, so Dean just nods and shrugs himself out of creep-o's grip where it's gone loose on his shoulder, making himself walk a normal speed and not run as he makes his way back to the table and Sammy.

It takes some doing, but Dean doesn't look back once.

 

* * *

 

"Let's take a walk," John says, voice pitched to conversational: He's still got the muzzle of his M1911 poked up close and personal to one of the scumbag's kidneys, a hand firm on the other guy's shoulder to keep him from turning on John -- not that the jerkoff looks like he's had any kind of training, but it pays to be careful. He checks for people watching them duck out the backdoor, and seeing none, uses his left to push the guy toward the exit.

The guy stumbles a little when John forces him into the door's push-bar, but the son of a bitch keeps moving forward, off balance and his hands out in front of himself where John can keep an eye on them.

"Hey, look," the guy says, voice filled with a strained _ain't-I-funny_ pitch, stumbling over one of the half-crushed cardboard boxes littering the alley behind the pizza joint. "This is all just a big misun--"

"Misunderstanding. Really." John doesn't let the guy start, swinging him around and pushing him hard against the wall. "I suppose you feeling up my boy was just an accident. Bullshit."

"Shit--"

John smacks the guy's head hard against the concrete blocks, forces him to his knees. "Oops. Yeah. I saw that trick with his mouth and your fucking thumb, _asshole_."

The guy takes a deep breath, like he's going to scream for help -- John hauls off and whips the butt of his pistol against the back of the scumbag's head: The crack isn't satisfying enough, but the fucker goes slumping down without another sound.

"Christ," John spits, giving the shitbag's ribs a hard kick for good measure: Like there wasn't already _enough_ to be afraid of out there in the dark, because then there are sick bastards like this. He's seeing red and really wants to just pull the trigger and give the world one less predator to worry about, but --

His boys are inside, he reminds himself. Waiting.

John kicks the unconscious fuck one more time, then tucks the gun in the back of his waistband. He doesn't have enough time to finish this like he wants, so he goes for the quick solution -- John kneels down, unlacing one of his combat boots, secures the guy's hands behind his back and cinches it good and tight, heading back inside.

His boys are waiting.

John drops a damned twenty on the table though he's already paid, shoves his notes -- pizza sauce and all -- into the bag with his research and some diapers for Sammy, gathers up both kids. He takes one good look around to be sure no one's giving him the stink-eye and makes a break for the door, tearing out of the place like his ass is on fire, the pitcher of piss-poor beer and two-thirds pizza long forgotten. He takes just enough time to tuck the boys into the backseat, ignoring Sammy's repeated protests -- "No! No!" -- and starts the engine, backing the Impala up to the mouth of the alley he'd left the scumbag child rapist lying in.

"Stay put," John orders Dean, and doesn't stop to see if Dean's listening, slamming his door shut: Dean's a good soldier, if scared right now. He'll do as he's told.

The cocksucker's still there, out cold -- not that John's surprised. He pops the trunk, bitterly glad that it really is large enough to hold a body, and heaves the fucker in.

 

John's got the kids stashed in their bed in the motel, safe behind lines of salt and chalk and iron: He's at the point he'd slap sigils in his own blood up on both sides of the door if it'd make his boys safer, but what he's doing right now is the best fucking medicine for that. It always bothers John more when the evil sons of bitches turn out to be human.

Well.

Classically defined as human, anyway.

John's tempted to put a bullet in the back of this animal's head with the Saturday night special he keeps for the one-use kinds of jobs -- sorely tempted. He's driven out here to the desert, the middle of fucking nowhere, and no one's close enough to stop him -- even if right now, he's just planning on having a chat with the guy, find out whether he's the thing that's been taking kids, clockwork-regular in six month intervals.

He's hunkered down on the Impala's trunk, looming above where he's dropped the rapist face-down in the dirt, barefoot, the bootlace cuffing him swapped for some nylon zip ties: John picked them up the same time as he grabbed the whiskey and cigarettes, the latter keeping his hands steady and the whiskey keeping his nerve.

The guy stirs, groaning quietly.

John takes one last breath on the cigarette and tosses it on the ground, crushing it under the heel of his boot.

Showtime.


End file.
